Fucking Cyrus

And of course you make me so very mad;
arms spread embracing Tchaikovsky, up high
holding hardly on. America had
so far away, seemed to easily lie
across aggressive proud waves of rich oil.
No more to me than a bold bird of prey.
Now it is the warming womb, the soft soil
that nurtured you. Armed with an old cliché
flying east, not like a hawk but more strong,
you come to inhale poor plain Mary Jane.
Raging redness. Together you belong.
opposites attract because they’re the same.
And the window seat below the towers
is their home, bearing fags and flowers.



Poetry by iRate
ACTIVIST. MUSICIAN. WRITER.
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